


Ouroboros

by taichara



Category: Rockman | Mega Man Classic
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:05:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another world, a very different Forte discovers just what the good Doctor has been working on in secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ouroboros

Another quiet evening; just the way he preferred it, with nothing but a few tasks to deal with and then cleanup. No great crises, no city streets rattling with cannonfire before Rock tore off to fight the good fight again. The twins were in rest-mode, the Doctor enjoying his evening reading before bed, and Forte had all the time he pleased to finish his own work …

Dr. Light had requested a dozen intricate mechanisms and wireworks etched out of titanium sheet. Dangerous and tricky work for a human, perhaps; but Forte had no such trouble, marking out the delicate schematics on the metal and monitoring closely as the fearsome acids did their work, his shaggy blonde hair pinned well out of the way.

The work was, admittedly, a little tedious, as the etching could be slow – speed sacrificed for precision. Once he’s lowered the second batch into the baths, Forte shrugged inwardly.

_I could read a few more chapters; but if I get the cleanup done now, I have more time left to mess around with the new crawler._

_Hell, I can probably use some of the scrap from the etches._

Efficiency was a bonus if it meant more time for his projects. Taking one last look at the acid, he adjusted his chronometer and padded into the main wing of the lab.

That was when he spotted the door; barely open, just a shadow of a crack.

On the other side of that door lay the Doctor’s own special project –

_… I shouldn’t pry. He said he doesn’t want us in there._

_But -- damn it, I want to see my brother! It’s not like I’m going to tinker …_

He shuddered at the very thought. He wasn’t remotely programmed for that kind of work, and it would take years to learn if he were allowed at all.

_I just want to see._

All thought of brushing up stray bits of metal and odd gears and storing away equipment was firmly banished from his mind, as -- oh so gingerly -- Forte pushed the door slowly open. 

No alarms, no flashing warnings. Even as his eyes shifted into low-light mode, he traced one hand along the smooth tiled wall to find the panel for the lights and bring them online …

The workroom was washed in soft white light, and Forte gasped.

There he was on the worktable; already hooked up to a battery of maintenance equipment though he was no more than frame at the hip, no legs at all, arms skeletal. From abdomen and ribcage up -- and here marveled at the sheer _intricacy_ as he padded slowly closer, stood over the unfinished form. 

All the systemry was in place on his torso, save for a few groups of myofibre for synthetic muscle and the outer dermis. Fasincated, Forte watched the play and flow of red-black ‘blood’ through a myriad of hair-fine lines, measured the faint movements of the chest, noted the shapes of the underlying structure, the systems he himself lacked.

_He’ll -- be human. An artificial human --_

And then there was the complexity of the still-exposed cranial systems. Almost like a second core, gleaming dimly with suppressed activity; and if he could judge from the readouts dutifully reported on the maintenance logs, terrifyingly advanced. There Doctor would have outdone himself, if this project succeeded.

It took an effort, painfully so, to wrench himself away from the table and its still-unsensing occupant. Glancing around the workroom, Forte wondered briefly if there were anything else --

_There. Got it._

Trotting to the countertop lining one wall, he was sharply disappointed to see samples of dense crystalloceramic armour and the unmistakable blood-red lenses of a buster system.

_Why do you have to arm him …?_

Curious despite himself, he reached towards a panel of dull armour to inspect the connective nodes --

And froze dead, staring, hand outstretched.

Sitting next to the collection of toys of war was his unwoken brother’s face.  
The entire superstructure of his skull, right down to pale flawless skin and a thick shock of frost-tipped black hair.

But the slack, falsely-sleeping features bore only a passing resemblance to Rock, the dark-haired member of the family; no chubby cheeks and faintly snubbed nose, no indeed. There was even less comparison to his own vaguely vulpine features.

As he slowly picked up the apparition, Forte knew he’d be trembling if he hadn’t shut that mimicry off to work on the acid etching. Studying the still features, he noted that they were finer than Rock’s, smoother, sharper lines, higher cheekbones that were more defined. Almost a fey look to the face. Forte’s ‘age’, maybe, but …

_… Blues._

_He looks almost like Blues --_

Careful, now, so careful, he traced the planes of the cheeks, feeling a strange alien unease settling over everything. As he lifted his hand away, the eyes slid slowly open to stare back; softly, verdantly green.

Green eyes. 

But all the siblings had blue eyes.

_Except … except I’ve never seen Blues without his visor._   
_He said he didn’t want to ‘freak me out’ -- do his eyes even show colour, any more? Would he remember?_   
_Is it something else the Doctor decided to change …?_

Forte’s own eyes closed, as one thought followed quickly on the heels of the others.

_And … my little brother is supposed to ‘have a will of his own’ …_

_Doctor, what are you doing?_   
_Do you even realize …_

Too much. Too much, and Forte stroked the silently-questioning eyes closed again as gently as possible (felt _so_ much like touching a human face …) before he set the module down again.

A quick glance, from false-sleeping, fey features to the half-crafted, unaware figure taking shape on the worktable --

It was enough. More than enough.

Dimming the lights, Forte fled back to his etching and his little crawlers of copper and brass, and knew it for the retreat it was. 

And as he monitored his work, his hands trembled.


End file.
